Sucummbing to the Darkness
by cataclysmically starry-minded
Summary: A depressed Harry story that is set after GoF.


Succumbing to the Darkness

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or the quote at the beginning of the story.

Author's Notes: I don't know if this will be considered depressing. I guess it is.

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    _There's another world inside of me that you may never see._

_   There are secrets in this life that I can't hide._

_  Somewhere in this darkness, there's a light that I can't find._

_ Maybe it's too far away…_

_Or maybe I'm just blind._

_-Three Doors Down: When I'm Gone (slightly altered)_

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            It was getting to a point where he could hardly bother going to sleep anymore. They haunted his nightmares, their voices echoing long after he awoke. Their screams pounded upon his sanity, their demands left him frightened and alone. There was no one to turn to, no one who would understand, and this is what made him feel more alone then he had ever felt.

            Darkness crept upon him in broad daylight, and at times it suffocated him to the point where he almost believed that it was a tangible item. And it was getting stronger everyday. It was becoming harder to conceal his emotions, more difficult to uphold his façade. Everything that wasn't dreamt appeared to be surrealistic, while the dreams themselves seemed vivid enough to be reality. Oftentimes he wondered how much longer he could pretend that the guilt didn't consume his every waking thought. But they couldn't suspect. They could _never_ suspect. He had to represent idealistic ideas; it seemed to be his only mission at that point. Besides murdering Voldemort. That was expected, his duty, his burden, his possible undoing. 

            His every action was practically mechanical, but his relatives neither noticed nor cared about his despondency. In their thoughts, he deserved it. In their thoughts, he was a freak. It was highly unlikely that they'd notice anything unusual about their nephew. Any unusual activities that didn't attract attention were subtly ignored; the abnormal boy could do what he wanted as long as the neighbors didn't notice. If his friends (or godfather) had been there, they would've immediately been worried, but the important thing was that they were not. He was much better at acting through his letters than he was in person, so he hoped it stayed that way for the time being. They shouldn't have to worry about him. He should be the only one concerned with himself. 

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            "It's your fault, Harry."

            "You didn't stop him from reviving himself."

            "He could only regain power through your blood, Potter. Both you and him deserve to be killed."

            "He only wanted you, yet we had to die. If only you didn't exist. Then, maybe we might actually still have our lives."

            Harry sat up with a slight gasp, resting his head in his hands. He was shivering, even though it was a warm summer's night. He should be happy: no Snape for three months! Maybe he would've been, if it weren't for the fact that he wasn't living with his parents, if he wasn't Voldemort's main target, if he hadn't inadvertently killed Cedric… 

            "Don't think like that," he murmured in admonishment "It's not your fault." But, he was lying to himself; he always was. And they lied to him too. They knew it was his idea to tie for the tournament with Cedric, that he had childishly been unable to stop the imminent _Avada_ _Kedavra _curse that was administered on Cedric moments after the Portkey had left them at their destination. He could plainly see it in their eyes. The figures that Voldemort's wand had produced were figments of his imagination. The people they represented were vengeful, blaming him for their hardships in the afterlife. And he had to admit that he believed wholeheartedly in what his dreams were trying to convey.

            No more sleep would come that night, and even if he had been tired, he would've been too terrified to attempt to fall asleep anyway. Instead, he reached into his trunk that was lying open at the foot of his bed and pulled out a worn copy of "Flying with the Cannons". It used to be an effective distraction, but he soon found that he could not concentrate on the orange clad figures that zoomed through the picture, occasionally scoring amazingly difficult goals. After a minute of carelessly thumbing through the book, Harry replaced it quietly. His holiday homework had all been thoroughly completed, because it was very easy for him to lose himself in his studies. If this had been the year before, he would've amused himself with imagining Snape's surprise at the effort that his least favorite student had put into his essay but this wasn't last year. Anyways, he figured that Snape would be too preoccupied with his secret mission to ponder the homework of his Potions class. 

            Harry settled on looking out the window at the waning moon, letting his thoughts wander. He stared at the inky sky, attempting to keep his thoughts blank, until the sun peeked over the horizon, lighting up the darkness with its light, pink, morning light. Soon after, Harry's aunt rapped loudly on his door, shrieking at him to get out of bed. With one last look out the paned window, he unlatched his door and slowly descended the carpeted stairs.

            It was another normal day for The-Boy-Who-Lived. He helped with breakfast, cleaned the house, and tended to the garden without a complaint, trying to stop the darkness from approaching. He ate very little, as usual. He had left his appetite at Hogwarts when he left and had become both thin and pale. The only thing that retained color in his face was his eyes but they too were dull, practically unseeing. Another night came all to quickly, and with it came another letter from Ron. It had been increasingly difficult to write to his best friend, pretending he wasn't fazed about Cedric's death, but he managed. But with every letter, he was losing his battle with his strongest opponent: himself.

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End 

Author's Notes: I know this is an overused topic… but I enjoyed writing this small story. Please, if you decide to review, which is unlikely, don't flame me.


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